


how to dance in time

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, also quentin and eliot stop being idiots, fuck you this is only fluff come at me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 05:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17995541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: Margo straightens out Eliot’s tie, a little rougher than necessary, and looks up at him with narrowed eyes. “Now, if Quentin says he loves you. What do you say?”Eliot sighs, long suffering, as if they haven’t had this conversation forty six times since last night. “I say, really? Wow. Thanks.” He gives her a deadpanned look, “No thanks.”She purses her lips and rears back to punch him in the shoulder. “Eliot!” She hisses, “You are not fucking this up again!”Obviously. He leans ins, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Trust me, Bambi,” He murmurs, glancing over her shoulder towards the living room where the others are all sitting and talking like they haven’t all just gone through hell in a hand basket ten times over. “I have zero intention of fucking this up again.” He darts his gaze back down to her, smiles softly. “I’m not afraid anymore. You don’t need to worry.”--Or, Eliot's done running.





	how to dance in time

**Author's Note:**

> the title comes from Blue Octobers "How To Dance in Time" def would recommend listening bc oops relatable (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xFj-szV4CHU)

Margo straightens out Eliot’s tie, a little rougher than necessary, and looks up at him with narrowed eyes. “Now, if Quentin says he loves you. What do you say?”

Eliot sighs, long suffering, as if they haven’t had this conversation forty six times since last night. “I say, really? Wow. Thanks.” He gives her a deadpanned look, “No thanks.”

She purses her lips and rears back to punch him in the shoulder. “Eliot!” She hisses, “You are not _fucking this up again_!”

Obviously. He leans ins, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Trust me, Bambi,” He murmurs, glancing over her shoulder towards the living room where the others are all sitting and talking like they haven’t all just gone through hell in a hand basket ten times over. “I have zero intention of fucking this up again.” He darts his gaze back down to her, smiles softly. “I’m not afraid anymore. You don’t need to worry.”

She scoffs. “It’s you. And Quentin.” She pulls away and moves around him to start picking up the discarded ties. “The two biggest dumb asses I know.” She pauses, glancing over her shoulder. “Said with love,” She quirks an eyebrow and turns back to the ties. “But I have plenty reason to be worried.”  

“Trust,” Eliot breathes, leaning slightly to the left to see if he can spot his favorite mop of hair. “I’m not screwing this up again.” He twists his neck to look at her. “Fuck being unhappy, Bambi,” He says, “We’ve played that game for far too long. Q and I . . .” He shakes his head, a quiet little ghost of a smile dancing along his lips as he thinks of stupid long hair and sad brown eyes, “against all odds have survived all this bullshit. We deserve a bit of happiness after it all.”

Margo drops the ties on the bed, crossing her arms and giving him an appraising look. Then all at once any judgement she’s still harboring washes away, and she smiles a trembling little happy grin. “Fucking right,” She says, reaching out. He meets her halfway and squeezes her hand with both of his. “Go get him.”

He grins, and leans down to press a kiss to the crown of her hair, “Love you, Bambi.”

She pulls away, rolling her eyes, and shoving at him. “Go.”

He nods once, before turning on his heel and heading to the living room. He stops in the doorway, just for a moment. There he is, he thinks, as he catches sight of Quentin sitting on the couch furthest from him. He’s laughing with Julia about something. Neither of them seem to care that the worlds ended and restarted all in three—or four, in all honesty—goes. And Eliot can’t blame them. Because they’re all alive.

A rush of warmth shoots up into his heart, and his feet move of their own accord. Quentin must sense him enter the room, because he looks up, and his chest heaves as he breathes in a big gust of air, and the small smile on his lips slowly softens to just a tiny uptick of the corners of his mouth. But his eyes are wide and shining, and he’s not moving. Just. Watching Eliot approach.

Julia makes a face, smiling but not really, and as Eliot comes to a stop beside them, she clears her throat and shoves up from the couch. “I’m just gonna—“ She breaks off as Eliot shakes his head, barely able to take his gaze off Quentin.

“No,” He says, waving a hand at her, “We need some privacy, anyways.” He glances at her, even as the thought of looking away from Quentin feels like too much of a loss. He reminds himself that he has another lifetime to do so. That this isn’t the end. That they finally managed to solve the problem, and that there aren’t any more apocalypses on the horizon. That he and Quentin have another chance to spend a lifetime together. That he can spare a few seconds without looking at him, because he’s got billions left.

She quirks an eyebrow, but shrugs a shoulder, dropping back down onto the couch. “All right,” She says, turning to look at Quentin. Eliot follows her gaze, feels his breath hitch.

Quentin’s hair is just as messy as it always is. But for once, instead of forcing down the fondness, Eliot embraces it wholly. Feels his cheek twitch with it. He reaches out, holds a hand out for him, and tries not to look too expectant.

Quentin swallows and reaches up, barely glancing at Julia long enough to give her an apologetic goodbye, and weaves his fingers through Eliot’s. He lets himself be pulled up and out of the room. Eliot’s not sure where he’s leading him, but out the cottage door, and across the Brakebills lawn they go. Past the buildings and the library. Beyond the furthest reach of campus. Quentin doesn’t even ask where they’re going, either. Eliot wonders if it’s because he realizes it doesn’t matter. If he’s thinking he’s just happy they both made it out alive.

If Quentin’s just as relieved to feel their pulses mingling together in their hands, they’re clasped together so tightly.

He finally stops. They’re at the edge of the woods on the opposite side of campus from the cottage. There’s nowhere for them to go unless they want to head out into the great unknown of uptown New York. Which, isn’t too much of a hardship. But he doesn’t want to lose any part of this conversation to the sound and chaos of New York. He doesn’t want them to be interrupted at all. Not by magic, not by people—not by anything.

He turns on his heel, swallowing down a lump of emotion that he’s not really sure he’s capable of understanding, and looks down at Quentin. Quentin’s already staring up at him; with the same sort of awe he had on his face that first day after stumbling through the brush and finding Eliot sitting up on the Brakebills stone. Eliot smiles down at him, his lips turning downward as he tries to conceal it by closing his mouth.

“Trying to get me alone, I see,” Quentin says after a moment. He doesn’t break the eye contact, though his thumb does carefully flit across the back of Eliot’s hand.

“Not fighting it, I see,” Eliot retorts, grin breaking through.

Quentin shrugs a shoulder, turning his gaze down to look at their hands. “Not much to fight,” He murmurs, glancing up at Eliot through his eyelashes. “Not much of a boxer.”

Eliot rolls his eyes, pulling him in closer, until they’re only a few inches apart. He reaches up with his free hand to cup Quentin’s jaw. Back in his happy place, this had felt like a dream that was centuries away. Like an inevitability that he’d never actually reach. But they’re here now. Standing beneath the trees, with the wind whisping Quentin’s wild hair around. It is weird, he’ll admit, letting himself get so close without the taste of opium in the air. Of having this with Quentin here, rather than in Fillory.

But that’s what makes it so much better. Because this is their choice. His and Quentin’s. This is them, after everything they’ve been through, with nothing but their hearts on the line—choosing each other.

“You’re an idiot,” Eliot murmurs fondly. Quentin makes a face, but Eliot just leans down to press his forehead to the top of Quentin’s, letting his eyes slide shut. “But so am I,” He adds, softer.  “Not that that surprises anyone.”

Quentin shrugs beneath him, making Eliot sway. It almost feels like he’s high. High on endorphins, high on the feel of being safe and alive, of having Quentin here to share it with him. Higher than any drug could ever make him. He inhales shakily, as Quentin responds. “I like think,” Quentin starts, somehow even softer, “That we’re done being idiots?”

It almost hurts, the way it comes out as a question. But it’s fair. The last time Quentin had put his heart on the line for him, Eliot took the opportunity and crushed it beneath his shoe without so much as taking a moment to consider what it meant. Not this time. Not ever again.

He pulls away and leans down to look in Quentins eyes and nod. “Yeah,” He breathes, “In some regards.”

“Which regards?”

Eliot swallows as Quentin lets go of Eliot’s hand reaches up to fist in the fronts of Eliot’s shirt. Any other time he’d take the time to lecture him on how a shirt as carefully ironed as the one currently clinging to Eliot’s torso shouldn’t be crinkled—but not today. Today there are exceptions. Exceptions for exceptions. Today his clothes don’t matter, because, for once, they’ve not is armor. He inhales, feels Quentin’s knuckles up against his ribs through his shirt.

“Well,” Eliot forces, once he realizes it’s been a few moments and he hasn’t responded. “I don’t think either of us can really be cured of our idiocy. But—when it comes to this,” He reaches up to wrap his hands around Quentin’s wrists, his thumb settling over Quentin’s pulse point. Tries to make him understand without really saying anything, even though he knows he needs to voice it. Needs to make it clear as fucking day, so Quentin can’t second guess it. “I’m done running.”

“Running?” He sounds slightly breathless, and Eliot tries not to feel too proud of the fact, but he nods.

“From you.” Quentin finally looks up, eyes wide and hopeful, and Eliot nods. Squeezes his hands around Quentin’s wrists, and hopes everything he’s feeling—like the universe in entirety has stopped around them, to focus on how fucking monumental yet mundane this moment is—is reflected in his own eyes. “That day. In Fillory, when I said it wasn’t us. That—we wouldn’t choose each other.” He breaks off, tries not to feel himself fall back into that memory.

“Yeah?”

He barely hears him. He swallows, wondering if Quentin’s so quiet because he’s worried he’ll ruin the moment.

“Now, listen closely,” He leans down, just a smidge, “Because this is a sentence I’ve never said before, and I doubt we’ll ever find reason for me to say again . . .”

Quentin’s brow furrows adorably. “What?”

“I was _wrong_.”

The deep furrow between his brow slowly fades, crinkles fading from existence, as his eyebrows slowly rise high up on his forehead. The corners of his mouth twitch. “Yeah?” He asks, and it shouldn’t make Eliot’s heart skip a beat, the way it sounds almost playful. They both know where this going now—even if they knew, long before Eliot took his hand and lead him out here. “What about?”

Eliot pretends to look thoughtful as his thumb dancing along the side of Quentin’s wrist. “Hmm,” He hums, “There’s a surprising amount of things, but.” He pauses, lets go of Quentin’s wrists, to slide his hands up his arms, and then down his sides, and clutch at Quentins hips. He digs his fingers into the flesh there, through the cotton of Quentin’s shirt. Reminds himself that this is real. That _they_ are real. “The main thing,” He licks his lips, looks down at where Quentin’s hands are still fisted in his shirt. Feels the stability of having him so close so deeply it’s almost hard to breathe.

“Is?” Quentin prompts.

Eliot forces down a laugh, and nods, “Right,” He nods. He keeps forgetting he has to actually say it. It’s so easy getting lost in this feeling. So easy to understand what he’s kept at bay, and letting it finally flush in; over and through him. “The main thing,” And he can’t even keep his voice from sounding slightly choked he’s so lost in all the feeling coursing through him, “is that I know we’d choose each other.” Quentin’s eyes flutter closed, and Eliot’d be blind to miss the relieved sigh that flushes out of him. “I knew that then, and it—it terrified me. You. Scared me.”

“Why?”

A little humorless laugh flits through Eliot’s mouth, and he pulls Quentin as closes as he can with his hands still fisted in Eliot’s shirt. “Because you make me happy,” He says into Quentin’s hair. “And for a long time i didn’t think I deserved to be happy.”

“But you do now.” He’s so close, he can feel Quentin’s lips brush against the base of his throat when he speaks.

“Not so much that, as I don’t care.” Quentin opens his eyes, mouth falling open as he leans back, Eliot continues. “I don’t care if I deserve to be happy. I just—I’m done being afraid of being happy. I’m done running from you, Q. I—“ He breaks off, frowning, because this isn’t how this was supposed to go. He was just supposed to tell him he loves him, and then they’d kiss and everything would be okay.

Quentin lets go of his shirt with one hand and reaches up to cup Eliot’s cheek. “You?” He prompts.

And it’s like he doesn’t even care that this is going all wrong, because of course he doesn’t. They’ve both been through the wringer. What does it fucking matter if nothing’s perfect? They’re them, and that’s as intrinsically imperfect as things can possibly get. All that matters. . . all that matters. Is.

“I love you.”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out as barely a whisper. To let it drift away on the breeze that barely gets through the cracks of negative space between them. But Quentin must hear it, loud and clear, because his hand moves around to cup the back of Eliot’s neck as his eyes go glassy.

“Like,” his voice cracks, and he tilts his head side to side, his nose crinkling, “Like how you’ve always loved me or—“

“Like I’m in love with you,” He interrupts, because he knows this is what Quentin needs. Absolute certainty. He adds an overly fond, “Idiot,” because it’s all so much, it’s bursting up in the air around them. Needs to release some of the tension before his telekinesis takes control and Quentin looks down to find them both floating up through the air. Eliot glances down, makes sure that hasn’t already happened, only slightly relieved to see their feet still carefully planted on the ground.

“ _Oh_ ,” Quentin breathes, nodding. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

For a moment of stupid, idiotic uncertainty, Eliot thinks about pulling away. But then a bright, gleaming grin flits across Quentin’s face in a way that Eliot hasn’t seen since—well. The mosaic. And he’s leaning up on his tiptoes, and Eliot barely has a chance to close his eyes, before he feels Quentin’s lips pressing to his. It takes a moment for it to really register, because it still feels so unreal, but then, Eliot’s leaning into it, his right hand moving up from Quentin’s waist to tangle in the hair at the base of his skull.

Quentin pulls away too soon—though, how long they’ve been tangled in each other, Eliot couldn’t even begin to try and calculate— and looks up at him through half lidded eyes. His lips bright red, and slick. He smiles, softly, thumb brushing along Eliot’s jaw. “I love you too,” He says, soft, though his voice is hoarse—so it’s probably been a while, then—and Eliot’s heart swoops in. Because knowing it and hearing it are so infinitely different.

Quentin’s brow furrows before Eliot can respond, though, and he looks down. They’re so close, he can feel Quentin’s heart jump, and Quentin looks back up at him, wide eyed. “Eliot,” he says, careful, “We’re floating.”

Eliot frowns, only slightly, and looks down. And, “Look at that,” He breathes, “We really are.” He can’t help the little hysterical giggle that bubbles up in him.

“You gonna put us down anytime soon?”

Eliot pretends to think about it. “Mm . . . dunno,” He says. “Think I like having you all to myself.” He moves so he can wrap his arms around Quentin’s waist again and leans down to nose along Quentin’s jaw down to his neck. “Can’t run away if we’re flying.”

“Won’t run away if we’re on the ground,” Quentin reminds, even as he tilts his head back. “But, i’ll admit, this is nice, too.”

“Yeah?”

Quentin nods, his hand coming up to tangle in Eliot’s hair. “You can’t run away like this either,” He murmurs.

Eliot presses a kiss to his collar bone, whispers into the skin there, “Trust me, Q. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. You’re stuck with me forever.”

Chuckling, Quentin pulls him in impossibly closer. “Oh no,” He murmurs sarcastically, “Whatever will I do with that _torture_.”

“I’ll show you torture,” Eliot replies, nipping at the skin at the base of Quentin’s throat.

“Oh yeah?” Quentin pulls away, just enough to stare at him, challenge bright in his eyes, “Come at me, Waugh.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Come hang out! I'm sadlittlenerdking on tumblr!


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